


The Lady of Shalott

by theeyebrowofspock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock's being pissy, Thoughts about death, Thoughts about war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeyebrowofspock/pseuds/theeyebrowofspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock says some rather thoughtless things and John reacts.  Sherlock takes his words to heart.  This can be read as pre-slash.  Sadly, I do not have rights to Sherlock, no matter how much I love our boys.  TW: Mild thoughts about death and its implications for the loved ones left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lady of Shalott

**Author's Note:**

> AN: First, I want to take this opportunity to thank my wonderful beta, abravelittletoaster - the seemingly endless rewrites, agonizing over word choice, and silliness from long, sleepless nights - she held my hand through all of it and is the reason that this story turned out as polished as it is. My dear, I will love you forever!  
> Secondly, I want you to know something about my choice of verbs. I generally tried to stick with what would feel natural to any modern reader. However, I made a point of reading all of the ACD canon almost a year ago. There were many things about it that made me giggle, and I'm sure that you would all see many of the same ones if you were to read the stories with your shipper goggles on. In fact, I would encourage all of you to do so if you ever need a light pick-me-up. There was only one thing about the original stories that drove me batty. Whenever Watson or Holmes got particularly excited about something they were saying, instead of just saying it or even shouting it, they "ejaculated". So, in the very unlikely situation that that particular verb should show up in this story, know that that is the sense in which I am using it. It's not a poor attempt at sexual innuendo, it's a chance to share my inner frustration with all of you.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror’s magic sights,

For often thro’ the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights

            And music, went to Camelot:

            - _The Lady of Shalott_ by Lord Alfred Tennyson

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

            “It’s absolutely absurd” Sherlock ejaculated, pulling his dressing gown more tightly around his shoulders and turned to face the back of the couch, away from the news program that was playing on the telly.

John looked up from reading the paper.  “What are you talking about?”

Turning his head just enough to keep from speaking into the pillows, he responded, “The news.  They persist in glorifying the deaths of Britain’s ‘poor, brave war heroes’.  How can every single soldier be a war hero?  Why does the public continue to consume such obvious propaganda?  It’s completely illogical!”

“What’s illogical?  Honoring the dead who gave their lives in service of their country?”

Sherlock snorted into the couch.

“Or taking up time on the news that should be dedicated to your beloved murders?” John paused to take a breath before continuing.  “Did it ever occur to you that such ‘glorification’ might give these families closure?  Rituals can give comfort when nothing else can come close.  There are so many people who have no idea what to do when their loved ones die.  Having these ceremonies in place help give them direction at a time in their lives when everything has been turned upside down.” John stopped talking when he realized just how loud his voice had gotten.  It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault.  What did he know of the comrades that John had lost in battle, their bodies left on the field without proper burial or even a gesture of respect?  Sometimes there weren’t bodies at all after an IED blew up a convoy.   Other times there was no time to carry the dead off the field because they had to care for the wounded.  No one has time for the dead when the cries of the living are so much louder. After making the ultimate sacrifice to protect their country, their family, and their friends, those soldiers deserved a little public recognition.   At the very least, people shouldn’t begrudge them a couple minutes of airtime.  Though, knowing Sherlock, he probably just saw the news program as support for a government that he scorned.  The man eschewed anything associated with the government, or, more specifically, his brother, in favor of immersing himself in his own independent work.

“ _John_ ”

John jerked his head up from where it had sunk into his chest.  Judging by Sherlock’s tone of voice, this wasn’t the first time he had called John’s name.  “What?”

Looking at Sherlock’s face, he was pulled all of the way out of the desert, back to 221B with his idiot of a flatmate.  Of course Sherlock hadn’t meant to touch upon such a sensitive subject.  Whatever had prompted him to say it didn’t matter.  It had been a thoughtless comment that had touched upon a raw area of John’s psyche.  And, although he knew Sherlock would never admit to it, John saw the concern that had flashed through his eyes when John raised his head and had taken a moment to recognize him. 

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

            The next day, John got back from work at the surgery thinking positively lustful thoughts about a cup of tea and some curry.  After hanging up his jacket and removing his shoes, he checked for any new, potentially life-threatening experiments in the kitchen, then in the kettle.  Nothing.  With a sigh of relief, John filled the kettle with water and turned on the burner.  While waiting for the whistle, he took a closer look at the flat for any important changes.  Even if Sherlock still delighted in calling him an idiot, he had picked up a few things from rooming with the detective for the past few months.  No new experiments or bullet holes in the wall, Hubris the skull was in his place on the mantle, and the mess of books and papers covering the floor was unchanged from this morning.  In fact, there were no signs that Sherlock had left his room at all, all day.  Leaving the tea to steep, John snuck over to the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, prepared for . . . he wasn’t sure what, but he knew it couldn’t be good.  Clenching his left hand into a fist and unclenching it again, John gathered his courage and tried the handle.  The door was unlocked.  Sherlock’s bedroom was in its normal messy state. It always made John wince a little, to see the carelessness with which Sherlock treated his books.  At least Sherlock hadn’t yet replaced the decaying mouse carcass that had sat on his dresser for months before John binned it last week.  One of these days, he was going to clean up Sherlock’s room himself, just to spite the man, and maybe show him that it was possible to have neat living quarters and still function normally.  Perhaps he would do it the next time Sherlock needed John to carry him home after collapsing from exhaustion.

But where was he?  He hadn’t sent John any texts all day, so it was doubtful that a case had come up.  There were no strange messages on his mobile, which ruled out Mycroft giving in to the urge to abduct his brother.  A horrible thought suddenly occurred to John: what if Moriarty had reappeared?  Trying to keep from jumping to conclusions, he quickly texted Sherlock.  _Where are you?  Are you O.K.?_  

            Two maddening, terrifying minutes later, his phone buzzed against his thigh while he sat in his armchair, drumming his fingertips against the armrest. _Order Italian for dinner, Indian will just give you heartburn.  Nothing for me, I ate yesterday.  SH_    John marveled at Sherlock’s ability to make him feel such relief and exasperation simultaneously, then went to find the takeaway menu for Angelo’s and make a new cup of tea, as his first was now undoubtedly ruined.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

            John snapped out of the light doze he had sunk into as he lay on the couch when Sherlock slammed the door to the flat.   Before he could pull his thoughts together enough to begin telling his flatmate off, Sherlock turned from hanging up his coat and strode across the room to press a manila envelope into John’s hands before fleeing to his room.  The speed with which he had left the room made John wonder if the envelope might be filled with explosives or chemicals.  No, he thought, if it had been filled with some dangerous substance, Sherlock definitely would have wanted to be present to observe his reaction when he opened it.  Or he might have opened it himself and gotten rid of the intermediary.  It simply said ‘John’ on the front, written in Sherlock’s blunt scrawl.  Opening the envelope with some trepidation, John peered inside and saw a rather large stack of papers.  He drew the stack out and, ignoring the handwritten cover letter for the moment, flipped through an incomprehensibly complex legal document.  Feeling even more confused than before, John flipped back to the cover letter. 

_John,_

_While I do not anticipate my death occurring any time in the near future, I must be honest with you about my life expectancy.  My lifestyle is not one that allows for an easy decline into old age and retirement.  I have always assumed that I will not live to reach middle age.  That being the case, I have spent the last twenty-four hours with Mycroft and his best lawyers, ensuring that when I do die, everything will be arranged satisfactorily.  I am leaving everything to you, as there is no one I trust more._

_I would request that you dispose of any illicit substances and the chemicals which I use for my experiments rapidly, as I cannot guarantee their stability or longevity.  The most appropriate method for such disposal would be to place everything in the hazardous waste drum that is currently stored under the stairs and contact Mycroft to have a team pick it up._

_I have taken notes on all of the cases which I have worked, and, if you insist upon writing about them, please attempt to focus upon my deductions rather than upon anything so trivial as the crimes themselves, as they are often so repetitive as to be commonplace.  It is only through my observations and deductions that those cases might have anything new to offer the field of detection._

_Mycroft has explicit instructions for the disposal of my body.  I do not wish for a large funeral and the idea of a wake is repulsive, but I realize that you may want to say some words, in which case I simply ask that you refrain, as much as is possible, from being maudlin.  I have chosen my path and do not regret anything, nor do I foresee any circumstances that would change my mind.  There will be no blame to dole out upon my death, no final regrets.  I have not lived a perfect life, but there is nothing I would change about it.  Everything else I entrust to you, to dispose of, or to keep, as you wish._

_If there is one more request that I may make of you, it would be that you continue to live once I am gone, that you make the most of whatever time you have and do not allow me to overshadow your life once I am gone._

_SH_

            John set the letter down with shaking hands and buried his head in his hands.  After a few minutes, this position became intolerable, and he padded over to the door to Sherlock’s bedroom.  It was closed.  As he raised his left hand, he idly wondered what either Holmes brother would be able to tell him about it if they saw how it trembled.  John rested his hand upon the door, as if that contact strengthened the tenuous connection he felt with this strange, marvelous man.  Don’t let Sherlock’s memory overshadow his life?  That was a laugh.  He had been blinded by Sherlock’s brilliance, to the point where, if he were to leave now, he would be unable to see anything except for the past.  All he would be able to do would be to remember his time with Sherlock.  Everything else had become dull and pointless unless Sherlock was there, with him.  John realized that he needed Sherlock, as his flatmate, his colleague, his genius, his friend, his . . . just his.  The two of them had been born for this, to solve crimes together and to balance each other out.  Life without Sherlock did not bear thinking about, so John continued to stand there, palm flat against the door as if, by doing so, he could feel Sherlock’s pulse, hear his breath, reassure himself that this genius, this brilliant man, was still living, still with him.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first fic ever, and I hope that you enjoyed it. Some of you might be left wondering if there is going to be a sequel, since that was a rather abrupt ending. This story was born when I started wondering what Sherlock would ask John to do in his last will and testament. When the plot bunny wouldn’t die, I decided to write it down. If you want to imagine Sherlock and John getting together after this ending, feel free. I have my own little headcanon, but I will not be writing it down. I have more bunnies that need exorcising and agonizing over. Hopefully, I will be able to share them with you before the year is out, but I cannot guarantee anything.


End file.
